All the Trouble in My Life Began
by cybertoothtiger
Summary: My take on how Fi and Michael met. This mostly follows the original canon from the first and second season, rather than the retcon of S6 and the comics, apart from their first conversation. Burn Notice is the property of Matt Nix and the USA network. Chapter 5 of 5 now up.
1. Chapter 1

_Why should I blame her that she filled my days_

_With misery, or that she would of late_

_Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,_

_Or hurled the little streets upon the great._

_Had they but courage equal to desire?_

- "No Second Troy" William Butler Yeats, 1916

**Chapter 1**

_When you're a spy, relationships are tricky. Lying for a living isn't the best preparation for openness and honesty with loved ones. Plus, there's always the chance that if you do get involved with someone, one day that person will be used against you. Or worse, they will be put in danger because of what you do for a living. Caring for someone or something is the easiest way to give your enemies something they can use against you. Which is why overall, relationships are a bad idea._

Michael is standing in front of the mirror, adjusting his tie, when Samantha's hand snakes around his waist and wanders lower.

"Now is not a good time, Samantha," he warns, but the corners of his eyes are crinkling.

"Oh, Michael, it's always a good time." She puts her chin on his shoulder and they both study his reflection. "Who are you tonight?"

"Texas oilman," he replies in a southern drawl. "Taking a gander at opportunities for partnering up on Western Siberia."

"Wealthy?" she asks.

He grins. "Is there any other kind, sweetheart?"

"Not for me, there isn't," she says, and starts a series of slow nibbles on his neck that threaten to make him late.

"Sam." The warning is more emphatic. He turns to face her, brushing her long hair away from her face. He appeases her with a kiss before asking, "What are you planning?"

"I'm the Countess de Villeneuve. Minor French aristocracy, with exquisite taste." She twirls, the silky black fabric of her evening gown swirling around her legs. "But don't worry, Michael. It doesn't involve you."

"Make sure it doesn't. My dance card is full tonight."

He kisses her again and is almost out the door when she stops him. "Don't forget this."

He taps his breast pocket where his wallet was a moment ago and shakes his head at her. "Cute, Sam. Real cute."

She feigns innocence.

Four hours later, the unfamiliar diamond necklace around Samantha's neck digs into his ribs as she collapses onto his chest, breathing heavily. "Damn, Michael. It's times like this I wish I smoked."

"Trust me, I'm glad you don't." His hand trails slowly through the mass of curls that is splayed out across the bed.

"Mmmmm." She snuggles against him. "Marry me, Michael."

His hand freezes.

She raises her head and rests her chin on his chest, searching his eyes. "Whoops, now I've scared you."

"No, no you didn't, Sam."

"I didn't? Because I was serious, you know."

"Okay, _now_ you're scaring me."

"Ha, ha." She puts her head down against his chest again. "Think about it – it could work. I know what you do, you know what I do. Neither one of us would have to change. And it might be the only way either of us could ever get married."

The flush he feels could be the vodka, or the success of tonight's op, or possibly the movement of her hand under the sheets, but he feels invincible, reckless.

"Okay."

Her eyes widen. "Okay? Seriously? You are made of romance, Michael Westen."

"Yes, Samantha, I will let you make me the happiest man alive." Even as he says it, he doubts that it will ever happen. Long-term plans almost never work out in his life. Or, he suspects, in hers. But he lies to her, she lies to him, it's the way they are together. It works. It's comfortable and exciting at the same time, and who knows? She might be right. It might be a good idea. It's too early to tell. They've only known each other a couple of months, but she understands him.

He doesn't get much time to really settle into the idea, because the next day, the dead drop has a new passport, drivers license, credit cards and instructions from Dan, his handler back in D.C. He's shipping out to Ireland. He leaves a note for Samantha:

_The office called. I've got a sales trip, not sure how long I'll be._

_Miss you, _

_- M._

It's poor tradecraft, but he knows she'll destroy it. Better she destroy a note than him for disappearing the day after they get engaged.

_Engaged._

The word rolls around in his head, bumping into other meanings. _Two men were killed when they engaged the enemy. He is about to engage on a dangerous mission._

Engaged. Jesus.

A small knot of fear forms his stomach as he hefts his bag into the back of the cab, and he checks the street more carefully than usual, pretending the enemy is out there.

XXXXX

He lands in Dublin near lunchtime and stops at an airport kiosk for some yogurt. It isn't much, but it will keep him going for now. He steps out into the light drizzle and hails a cab. The cabby is gregarious, and when he offers to give Michael a highlight tour, Michael accepts. He listens closely, noting the turns of phrase, the specific cadence of the speech at the same time he's memorizing the layout of the city.

It's a beautiful city. The river through the centre of town is lined with tightly packed stone and brickwork buildings, some painted in hues of red and yellow, cheerful against the grey sky. Wooden storefronts, thick with ancient layers of paint, sport windows wobbly with age. Cobbled side streets, Victorian influences of wrought iron railings and statues, and more recent post-war dull blocks speak to a process of urban renewal that has happened in fits and starts, much like the peace process in the north. He rolls down the window a crack and inhales the smell of the sea and the slightly ozone odour of abundant greenery.

He's never been to Ireland before, but he thinks he'll like it. He'd never travelled at all before he joined the army, except for that one summer his mother had somehow scraped together enough grocery money and surprised them all with a trip to Disneyworld. No one had been more surprised than his father, who could think of a few other uses for that much ready cash, but Madeline had stuck to her guns and they'd driven up in the Charger, the boys' bare legs beneath their shorts sticking to the leather seats, no air conditioning to provide relief from the August swelter.

God, Michael had hated that car, probably in direct proportion to how much his father loved it. The car had been the only new one his father had ever owned – a gift from some guy he'd worked for in one of his many shady turns and schemes.

Michael might not have travelled much, but life with Frank Westen was a master's class in moving between worlds: his mother's fantasy world of a happy family, the one he'd created for himself at school, and the ever changing reality of his father's, full of hard knocks and the constant promise of something better almost within reach, if only they could figure out how to get it away from someone else. Each new scam required the boys to take on a new identity – the sick kid, the slow kid, the injured kid. Sometimes Frank would give them a helping hand with the realism on that last one.

Michael's almost chameleon-like ability to blend in and adapt to new situations was one thing that got him noticed by the CIA.

The driver finally drops him at a cheap chain motel on the fringe of the tourist area. The cabbie gives him a look approaching pity, but Michael has chosen carefully. There's no bellman to see him carry his own bag into the washroom, where he exchanges his sweater for a suit jacket before heading back to the street through a different exit. After a few minutes, a battered grey sedan pulls up at the curb with a long-haired Asian woman in the driver's seat. She leans over to open the passenger door.

"Get in."

He smiles as he tosses his small bag into the back seat. Leaning over, he gives the woman a kiss on the cheek before he settles in. "Lucy. I didn't expect to see you. I thought you were still in Jakarta."

"Good to see you, too, Michael. I'm not here for long. Dan's in town, too, but only for a few hours. He's waiting for you at the office. He'll brief you."

He whistles. "Dan showed up in person. This must be big. Aren't you going to fill me in?" He flashes his teeth at her. Lucy had never been able to resist him. He doesn't really need the information before he gets to the office, and he knows Dan's briefing will be more thorough, but he'd trained Lucy in counter-interrogation and they'd been playing this game ever since. "Please?"

Lucy concentrates as she slips back into traffic, then gives him a sidelong glance from under long eyelashes. She humours him with a reply. "The Brits got wind of an American financial connection for the IRA. They're on track to try again with the peace talks, and they don't want it fucked up by a bunch of Yanks. That's all I know."

Flirting out of the way, they catch up on personal news as she drives a pattern to flush out any trackers. He doesn't tell her about Samantha. He isn't sure why, exactly. Maybe it's bad luck, maybe it's too personal. Or maybe it doesn't seem real, yet. It's only been 16 hours, give or take. It feels like a lifetime since he was that person.

The 'office' is a small 24-hour photocopy shop and internet café. It's a good cover – there is a reason for people to be entering and leaving at all hours carrying documents. Dan is in the back room, sipping a Sprite.

"Hey, Dan."

"Hello, Michael."

"Whatcha got for me?" Michael flopped into a chair and rummages through the bag of chips on Dan's desk. He picks up the package and reads the label as he crunches a handful. "Roast chicken, huh? How 'bout that."

"Buy your own goddamn food, Westen," Dan growls, snatching the packet away, but Michael just smiles at him innocently.

Dan pulls out a file. "You're here as Michael McBride, a thug from Kilkenny with Republican sympathies. We want you to infiltrate the local cell of the IRA."

"I thought they were more active in Belfast?

Dan nods. "They are. But their financing is coming from here. A source in Miami let us know about a possible American connection – ex-pats eager to help out the old country."

"Or keep it from ever having peace."

"Yeah. Well, we think they might be trying to get enough cash together for a last-ditch arms deal, but we don't know who the suppliers are. Your best bet to find out is Sean Glenanne. He hangs out at a pub near the docks. Get to know him, see if you can find out what's up."

Michael takes the file and starts reading. His hand comes up just in time to catch a set of keys that Dan tosses to him.

"Your flat and car. Car's around the corner. Address is on your driver's licence." He slides a thick envelope and a clipboard across the desk. "And five thousand Irish pounds to get you started."

Michael grunts acknowledgement and tears his eyes away from the file long enough to scrawl his signature on the form and pocket the envelope. He has a lot to absorb.

XXXXX

_Choosing a cover I.D. is more than getting a new name on a drivers licence. It requires knowledge of the target, and matching your skills and personality to what they might need. If they need muscle, you might want to go low-rent. If you want them to let you see their books, you have to inspire confidence that you know your way around the world of finance. But for an organization like the IRA, it helps if you can also show that you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. A strong, silent type with a sense of style can allow you to walk that line._

Michael dresses carefully for the club. A well-tailored suit without a tie, and his shirt open just enough to show the St. Christopher's medal at his throat. A decent-sized gold ring on his right hand, but smooth so there's less chance of it catching on anything. And a nice watch. Not too expensive – he doesn't want them to think he's the type who will skim off the top. The money has to go to the cause. Just nice enough to show he knows the value of things.

The pub has two floors – one for drinking and conversation, populated mostly with older men, and one for the younger crowd, with music and dancing. Michael follows the steady thud of the bass up the stairs to the dance bar. Conversation is going to be an issue. He steps through the door and pauses, adjusting the cuffs on his shirt as he scans the place, or what he can see in the dark. Emergency exit in the far corner, the doors no doubt chained shut. Tables and seating along the wall to his right, bar to his left, and in between a throng of gyrating bodies highlighted in rotating search lights in a haze of smoke, rewarding the cover band with enthusiastic dancing. He ignores the urge to bob to the beat and walks, struts, almost, to the bar.

He orders a pint and holds out an extra five pound note to the bartender. "I'm looking for Sean Glenanne."

The bartender looks at the money, then at Michael. "Who's asking?"

"Name's McBride. I've got a bit of business with him." Michael pulls out another five and adds it to the first. The bartender shrugs and takes the money, tilting his head to the other end of the bar. "Haven't seen Sean yet, but that's his sister."

Michael waits, but the bartender doesn't offer the sister's name. A third fiver slides across the bar.

"Fiona."

"Thank you," Michael's flashes his teeth, but the smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Much appreciated."

He leaves his beer and picks up an empty glass from the bar before he turns away, allowing himself a small eye roll before heading down the bar. This time, he moves his head in time to the music, making a show of having a good time as he works his way through the crush to the bar once more, slipping in next to the petite woman with long auburn hair leaning back against the wood, the stiletto of one heel hooked over the brass rail near the floor.

"Whew," he says, reaching across and setting his empty glass down while motioning to a different bartender for another, "The band's that good. I've worked up a powerful thirst. Can I get you something?"

Fiona turns away from the man she was talking to and studies Michael, her eyes travelling the length of his body. "Maybe."

The way she says it suggests something more than a drink, and Michael returns the sentiment in his grin. There's an energy about her that he likes. "What'll it be?"

"A shandy, please."

"Shandy it is."

He hands her the drink and raises his own glass. "Sláinte."

"Sláinte." She clinks.

"I'm Michael, by the way. Michael McBride."

"Fiona Glenanne."

"Care to dance, Miss Glenanne?"

She smiles and leans into him, reaching one hand into the small purse hanging across her shoulder. Suddenly, there is something small, hard, and probably snub-nosed against his side, and beneath the music he feels more than hears the unmistakable click of a revolver being cocked.

He might be able to take her, but the pub is crowded and he has no idea how far she is willing to push this, so he smiles again, this time with less sincerity. "I'll take that as a yes."

"You'll take that as a reason to tell me who the hell you are, and why you're paying off bartenders to find out about me." She's speaking directly into his ear, her mouth so close he can feel her lips brushing his earlobe, and a shiver travels down his neck. She pulls back and tilts her head fetchingly, maintaining the appearance of a flirtatious couple. "Shall we step outside?"

Sometimes, the best defence is to appear defenceless. He laughs disarmingly. "You saw that, did you? It's true, I did pay the bartender, but I was looking for Sean Glenanne. The bartender told me you're his sister."

She narrows her eyes. "Why are you looking for Sean?"

"I have some business with him."

"But you don't know him, or you wouldn't have had to pay the bartender."

"True. A mutual friend told me about him – David Flannery. Dave and I spent some… time together a few months back. He suggested Sean might be able to help me out with a spot of bother I've been having getting some currency changed."

Fiona considers this and apparently decides he is telling the truth, because she points across the dance floor. "Well, he won't be helping you much tonight. It's his birthday. He's that eejit half gone over there, with his tongue down that cow's throat."

Michael pushes aside his irritation at the bartender for messing around with him, and follows Fiona's gaze to a man slow dancing to a fast song, clinging to a brown-haired girl. They stumble and it's clear they're holding each other up.

"His birthday, is it? Well, now. We should stand him a drink, too." Before she can protest, he's ordered a whiskey and is dragging her into the throng of dancers towards her brother.

Three hours later he's in a group with Sean in the middle, weaving their way along the street, singing at the top of their lungs.

Fiona trips and twists her ankle, falling off her ridiculously high shoes. "Sean!" She shouts. "I've buggered my ankle. I'd best be getting home."

"Ah, shite, Fi." Her brother wobbles over to her and bobs his face up and down, undecided whether he should focus on her foot or her face. Michael claps him on the back.

"S'aright, Sean. I'll see her home."

A third point to focus on is almost more than Sean can handle, and he staggers a few steps. "Ah, McBride, you're a lovely man, but I've only just met you. I can't ask you to do that."

"Not a bit of it. It's no trouble at all." He lifts Fiona's arm over his shoulder, supporting her.

After a bit more dithering, Sean decides on the face and peers at her. "Is it alright with you, Fiona? Only I was going to Sheila's, there, and –"

She cuts him off. "Sean, it's fine. Michael will look after me. Be off with you, now." Not too reluctantly, he obeys, and the rest of the group trails after him, leaving Michael and Fiona alone on the street.

"Are you alright?" he asks her, helping her to a low wall and crouching to get a look at the ankle. He reaches out a hand, then stops and looks up at her. "You're not going to pull a gun on me again, are you?"

"Not right now," she says, but her tone is not entirely reassuring. He lets his fingers explore the joint anyway, and she winces. "It's just a sprain," he says. "You'll have to stay off it for a day or two."

He looks up again when she shivers, her thin top not nearly enough protection from the January damp rolling in off the harbour. "Here, now. You'll catch your death." He removes his suit jacket, placing it around her shoulders.

"Thank you," she says, drawing it close in front of her.

"Can you walk if I help you? My car is right around the corner." He's been careful, pacing himself, spilling drinks until the others were too far ahead of him to notice. He doesn't get drunk on the job if he can possibly avoid it.

"I think so, if I take off the shoes." She grimaces.

He leans forward, untying the laces that criss-cross her ankles. They're such delicate ankles, and the skin under his fingers is soft. He blinks and stands, and she leans into him, letting him support her as he leads her to his car.

At her flat, he helps her to the door. "You'll want to get some ice on that. Do you need any help?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm fine. Thank you." She raises her face towards his, the soft light of the streetlamp giving her skin a pale glow. "It was nice to meet you, Michael McBride."

The corner of his mouth tilts up slowly. "It was nice to meet you, Fiona Glenanne." He leans forward and lets his lips brush her cheek.

He watches from his car until the light in her window goes out.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much to those of you who have taken the time to leave a review. Much appreciated! Concrit is always welcome.

**Chapter 2**

He waits until late morning before he returns. Sean answers the door. "Alright, alright, we're not deaf, you don't need to wake the dead." He's holding a bag of ice to his head and he glares at Michael blearily. "McBride. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I came to check on Fiona, and to get my jacket." Without waiting for an invitation, Michael steps past Sean and into the hallway.

Sean nods. "Right. Thanks for taking care of her last night." He stares at him. "I half expected to find you here when I came round this morning."

Michael's eyes narrow fractionally. "I saw her home safe, as I said I would."

Sean nods again, leans in close. "And it's well you did, or we would have had a wee problem." He relaxes and claps Michael on the shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. "You're an honourable man, McBride. I like that." He puts pressure on the hand and directs Michael further into the flat. "Fiona! Your young man is here to see you."

She's standing by the stove with a spatula in her hand. One foot is resting on an open drawer, a tensor bandage around the ankle. A skillet sizzles on a burner and the delicious smell of fried onions fills the room.

"Michael! You're just in time. I'm making steak and eggs." She slides a portion onto a plate and hands it too him. "Good for what ails you. There's hair of the dog in the pitcher, there, or coffee if you'd rather."

Michael chooses coffee and thanks her. Sean has collapsed into a chair at the table and pushes out another chair for Michael. By the time they're done eating, he's revived considerably and fixes Michael with a steady gaze. "Thanks again, McBride. If there's ever anything I can do for you, you let me know."

Michael knows Sean's just being polite, but he seizes the opportunity. "Actually, there is something you could do for me. I've just returned from abroad, and I have some money I need to convert."

"You'll want a bank for that."

"Well, the thing is, I need to get it up to Belfast. Her Majesty doesn't know about this money yet, and I'd like to keep it that way. I heard you could help me out."

Sean's head snaps up. "You heard that, did you? Who told you that?"

Michael keeps his posture relaxed as he smiles. "It doesn't matter. If I'm mistaken, say the word and I'll be on my way."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Fiona tilt her head in a signal to Sean. She doesn't want him to go. That's good.

"How much are we talking about?"

"Fifty thousand, to start."

"Pounds?"

"Dollars."

Sean ponders this, then comes to a decision. "Fiona, luv. Get the man some more coffee."

xxxxxx

Michael drives around for a while, making sure he's not followed before he pulls up a block from the safe house. The military intel operative is already there. Dan and Lucy have returned to the States.

"Sam Axe." Michael says, pleased to see a familiar face. Sam is quirky but reliable and he can work magic. He has more connections than a switchboard.

"Mikey. Come on in." Sam leads him to the lounge, talking over his shoulder as he goes. "You know what I love about Ireland, Mike?"

"What's that, Sam?" Michael asks, even though judging by the tumblers on the coffee table, he thinks he could venture a pretty good guess.

Sam picks up a decanter on the sideboard and pours a generous serving of golden liquid into each glass. "The whiskey." He sighs as he sinks into the somewhat iffy couch and picks up both glasses, handing one to Michael. "Ireland is home to some mighty fine whiskey." He clinks his glass against Michael's. "May you be in heaven half an hour before the devil knows you're dead."

"Aw, that's nice. Except for the dead part. You been reading the tea towels in the gift shop again, Sam?" Michael grins and takes a drink. Sam's right about the whiskey.

Sam ignores him, savouring his first taste and holding the glass up to the light as he swirls it around. "Yup, that's what I'm talking about. Damn fine." He reaches for an envelope on the table and pulls out a file. "The women aren't too bad either. This Fiona Glenanne, for instance. Quite the looker."

He hands Michael a surveillance photo. Sam's right about that, too. But Michael isn't here for things he already knows. "And?"

Sam's frowns as he holds the next sheet of paper. "And like the whiskey, this chick packs a punch. I don't know, Mikey, you'll want to be careful with this one."

Michael gives a low whistle as he reads over the file. "Fiona. You have been a _very_bad girl."

"She's implicated in some hold-ups, been responsible for car bombs all over the city, and we think a couple of murders, too."

Michael cocks an eyebrow. "Murders?"

"Yeah. Turns out she's pretty handy with a sniper rifle."

Michael nods. "What about gun running? There were some Barrett parts in her apartment."

"Seriously? Jesus, Mikey."

"It'll be in my report. I'll try to find out more when I see her again." He took a sip of his drink. "Speaking of reports, why wasn't she mentioned in the file on Sean? She's his sister, for God's sake."

Sam shrugs. "Don't worry, some poor schmuck at the office is getting in loads of trouble for that little oversight. Listen, Mikey, I don't know if she's going to be your best play, here."

Michael is quiet as he flips through the pages for a while, reading carefully. He doesn't want to risk taking it home with him. Finally, he hands it back to Sam.

"Sam, if half of what's in this file is true, she's exactly what we need."

"Yeah? So what's your plan, Mike?"

"I'm already in, Sam. I think I'll cosy up nice and slow. I don't want to spook her."

Sam allows himself a small leer. "It's your call, brother. There are worse ways to die." His smile fades under Michael's withering glance.

Michael downs the rest of his drink and stands. "I'd better write up my report. Computer is-?"

Sam points down the hall.

xxxxxxx

Cozying up proves easy. Given the life the Glenannes are living, it's not long before Michael has a chance to demonstrate his usefulness in the field as well as finance, and soon he and Fiona are given their first job together.

He shows up in a suit, as usual. Fiona eyes him, but says nothing. Sean gives them their mission.

"Right. Now, this is only a scouting operation. You're to fill out an application for a loan, but that will get you into the back, past the tellers. Check out the security and get out clean." He gives Fiona a hard look that makes Michael nervous. "You hear me, Fi?"

Her eyes widen innocently. "Of course!"

They enter the bank and approach the receptionist.

"Tom and Mary O'Doul," Michael tells her. "We're here about a mortgage, aren't we, luv?" he puts his arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze. She leans into him. Her hair smells like ginger and lemongrass. He forces himself to focus.

"That's right. We're getting married, and I told Tom, here, I told him I wanted a nice place for the kids. I want _heaps _of kids." She smiles up at him.

He's looking around the room, checking the location of the vault, and she steps on his foot, subtly, but hard enough to cause pain when her heel digs in. He hopes his grimace looks like a grin. "Heaps."

The receptionist leads them back to an office. As instructed, they fill out paperwork and make small talk while they note the locations of the security cameras, windows and alarm buttons. Michael is also making note of Fiona. She's working the cover well, although she could be accused of trying to oversell it by the way she keeps touching his knee. He tries not to think about her hand on his knee.

xxxxxx

It's the day of the job and she's running out of the bank, pulling her mask off, her hair streaming behind her like a banner. He's got the car moving before she's closed the door and she has to hang on as he peels around the tight corner into an alley between stone buildings. She almost drops the detonator, but once the car straightens she holds it up and pushes the button triumphantly. A car explodes in the street, and behind him he can hear the frustrated sound of sirens piling up into a traffic jam. She's laughing, and the adrenaline courses through him, and something else, too, and despite himself, the fake laugh of his cover becomes real.

xxxxx

Sean sends them to Belfast for a few days. Fiona picks him up. He opens the trunk and whistles. It's crammed with rifles. Barrett M82s, matching the parts he saw in her apartment. "Uh, Fi? There's not much room back here."

"Oh, those. Sean wants us to deliver a few things to one of the units while we're there." She looks at his bag, then at him, raising her eyebrows slightly. "I'm sure you'll find a way to get it in somehow, Michael." She shifts a few things around. "There." She smiles brightly as he tamps his small duffle into place.

On the drive up, she tells him about her life, how she got involved with the IRA after the death of her sister.

"I'm sorry," he tells her, meaning it.

"Yes, well." She's silent for a moment. Then she adds, brightly, "We're getting the bastards back now, aren't we?"

xxxxx

The boy is crying. He can't be more than eight and the soldier standing over him is enormous in comparison, all body armour and hard surfaces, hardly human at all.

Michael knows he shouldn't get involved. They're on their way to meet an IRA colonel named Ian Donovan, who could be an important contact. Michael shouldn't draw attention to himself. But the soldier is yelling, and the boy is crying, and it's his weak point. One he doesn't necessarily want to learn to overcome. He crosses the street.

"Is this wee lad giving you trouble, corporal?" He holds his hands out and down, palms open, unthreatening.

"Oi, stay out of it." The soldier looks at Michael and his hand goes to his side arm.

Michael keeps coming. "Surely there's no cause for yelling, now, is there? What's he done, taken your football?"

The soldier swings his rifle around, levels it at Michael. "Stay there. Don't take another step. Stay there!"

Michael raises his hands above his head, palms still open. Without taking his eyes off the face below the helmet, he speaks to the boy. "Run along home, now, lad." Needing no further encouragement, he obeys at top speed, leaving the two men standing on the sidewalk as bystanders scurry to safety.

"Easy, now, corporal. I'm not going to hurt you. See? I've nothing on me." Slowly, he turns around, lifts the back of his leather jacket to show that there is nothing underneath but a thin wool sweater. He does have a pistol strapped to his leg, but he's hoping it won't come to that. "I was just making sure the young man was alright."

"He's fine."

"Well, then. That's settled, isn't it?" Cautiously, he lowers his hands. The soldier's arms draw back, the tension drains out of his shoulders.

"I'd best be on my way, hadn't I?" His voice is low.

The soldier nodded, then said, loud enough for the old lady hiding in the doorway across the street to hear, "Move along." He waves his rifle, slightly, indicating the direction of the street.

"Aye, I'll do that." Michael backs a few steps, then turns, crossing the street at an angle to keep the soldier in his sight. He regains the other curb to find Fiona staring at him, open mouthed. He takes her elbow and starts walking. "Come on. Let's go before the arsehole changes his mind."

"Ian would have your hide for that," she says. "You could have exposed us all."

He looks down at her without breaking his stride. "And how would he find out about it, unless you tell him?"

Her silence makes him stop. His hand still on her arm, he turns her towards him. "You're not going to tell him, now, are you?"

She's studying him, weighing who he seems to be against what she's just seen. He curses himself silently. His eyes harden and is calculating who can reach their weapon first when she finally speaks.

"I suppose not."

"You suppose not." He nods, and propels her forward again. "Let's go, then. I want to meet this Ian."

xxxxx

The meeting goes well. Michael is in like the proverbial Flynn, and Ian is in a chatty mood. He can't wait to tell them what the money is for: an arms deal, a last-ditch effort to give the dissidents in the IRA the upper hand before the leadership sells them out and the peace talks begin in earnest. They're scouting for sources, but top on the list are the Libyans. The deal could take a while, so there is no urgency, but intelligence is like ice cream – it's best served fresh. Leave it out for a while, and you wind up with a muddy soup that's no good to anyone. Michael is itching to get away for half an hour and make it to the dead drop for his MI-5 liaison to relay the intel to Dan, but Fiona has other plans for him. On their way back to the hotel, she steers him down a side street.

The pub is smoky and loud with the clamour of voices. Along the wall by the window, a tall girl wearing a scarf and peaked cap is playing a tin whistle, flanked by a another girl with a mane of ginger curls haloed around a fiddle and scrawny young man whaling away on a bodhran with a small two-headed stick. The beat is infectious, and patrons are tapping their feet and singing along.

They head to the bar, where a grey-haired man is pulling pints non-stop.

Fi leans over the counter and orders a pint of Guinness. She hollers back at Michael to make herself heard over the music. "What'll it be? It's my shout."

He grins. "A pint of the home brew, of course." She orders him a Kilkenny and pays.

She hands Michael his drink and leads him through the throng to the stairs at the back. They descend to the basement room with dark wood paneling to a battered chair rail and textured wallpaper painted green paint above. The noise from upstairs is muffled when the door closes behind them. Here there is quieter conversation. Men are playing billiards in the centre of the room, and there are two dart boards at the back. Every head turns to look at them. Fiona raises her head and throws back her shoulders as she walks past them to the dartboards.

She pulls the darts out of the board and hands them to Michael, letting her fingers touch his. "Let's see how good you are with something pointy."

He raises his eyebrows, lingers as he takes the dart from her hand. "I can hit a target, if that's what you're wondering."

"I certainly hope so." She laughs and takes a sip of her beer.

"You've got a little," Michael gestures to a trace of foam, "there, on your lip."

"Are you looking at my lips, now, McBride?"

He just smiles and throws a dart, hitting the bull's eye.

"Impressive, but it's consistency that counts."

He throws two more, forming a neat little cluster in the centre. He retrieves them and pauses, leaning in close as he hands them to her. "Now let's see how well pointy things perform in your hands."

She rolls her eyes and he laughs.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement at the booth nearest them. There are two men sitting there. One is tall and lanky, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He's wearing an olive green sweater with a leather patch at the right shoulder, worn smooth exactly where the butt of a rifle would tuck in against it. He makes a small gesture with his hand and the shorter, stocky man sitting with him picks up his pint and goes to join another table. The man stands and approaches them.

"If it isn't the lovely Fiona Glenanne."

"Hello, Roddy." Her tone is less than enthusiastic. Clearly, she didn't expect to see him, whoever he is.

His head tilts as he appraises Michael. "And who is this you have with you?"

"A friend."

Michael looks away, scoping the room, and looks back slowly. He doesn't like this.

"Name's McBride."

Roddy appraises him, finds him wanting, and turns his attention back to Fiona.

"It's been too long, Fi, if you're swanning about with the likes of this."

"Feck off, Roddy." Fiona sniffs.

His hand snaps out and around her wrist. "I think you're forgetting your manners, Miss Glenanne."

"I think you are forgetting yours, Roddy," she hisses. "Let go of me."

Michael steps in. "You heard her, let go," his voice is low.

Roddy looks from one to the other and pushes Fiona's wrist away, stepping back with his hands raised. "Alright, now."

Suddenly, he takes a swing at her, but she's too fast for him. Before Michael can do anything, she twists Roddy's arm behind his back and slams his face on the table, holding the point of a dart to his neck. "You little prick, Roddy."

The stocky man pulls a knife from his belt and runs at Michael. Michael grabs his wrist and uses his forward momentum to disarm and flip him. Michael stands with his foot on the man's neck and looks at Fi.

"We'll call it a draw, then."

They back out of the room with Michael holding the knife in front of him. Just before the door swings closed, Fi throws the dart and it lands in the wood above Roddy's head. They run.

In the alley, they can hear the shouts of Roddy's men looking for them.

"We should split up," Fiona pants.

Michael retrieves the pistol from his leg holster and offers it to her.

She shakes her head. "It's alright, I've got one," she says, and she's off.

xxxxx

The next day, Michael makes the dead drop and meets Fi for breakfast.

"Interesting company last night," he says, regarding her over the top of a cup of tea.

She shrugs. "Roddy's nothing. I trained with him, we were involved. I got over it. He didn't." She pushes the eggs on her plate around with her fork, then takes a bite, swallows. "You handled yourself well."

It was the first time she'd seen him fight, and for some reason, it matters to him that she was impressed.

"I'm glad you made it back in one piece."

She looks at him, head tilted. "Michael, you were concerned. That's sweet."

He huffs the start of a laugh. "That's me. I'm just an old sweetie," he says dryly. "Let's talk about the job for tonight."

They get down to business.

xxxxx

The job goes sideways and the British are chasing them through the darkened streets, slick with rain. In the distance they can hear the sound of a chopper, getting closer. A search light shines down. It will be on them any moment.

"This way."

She guides him over a low stone wall and through the broken window of an empty house, pushes him down half a second before the searchlight from the armoured personnel carrier finds the wall behind them. The noise of the engine fades as patrol moves on, and soon the only sound is their breathing as she lies on top of him in the darkness.

"Seems a shame to waste this," she whispers, so close he feels her breath on his chin.

Then she's kissing him.

He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't stop to think if this will make it easier to run her as an asset, or make things impossibly complicated. Her fierce loyalty could mean forming a stronger personal attachment will help him, but if she sees his cover as a betrayal, it could mean she'll kill him. He'll analyse that later, in his report. He doesn't stop to think about Samantha. She belongs to a different life. This does not touch that.

He doesn't stop to think. He just responds. It turns out she's passionate and more than a little reckless in everything she does.

xxxxx

The next night, they're out again, holed up in an empty house. He rests his hand on her arm, applying gentle pressure to lower her weapon away from the shot she's aiming to take.

"Not like that, Fi."

She glares at him, impatient. "I've been waiting for this for hours, Michael. Plus, it's my turn. You missed the last time."

Across the street, the young soldier walks on cautiously, peering into the deep shadows of the shuttered shop doorways, griping his rifle so tightly Michael's own fingers start to cramp in sympathy.

Michael shakes his head. "Now, Fi. Think about it. You could take out one soldier, or you could get the whole bloody fortification. Why ruin your chances at the bigger prize?"

Fi considers this. "What's your plan?"

"Do you have any Semtex on you?"

She grins. "When do I not?" she places her rifle on the floor and turns to the duffle beside her. "I like the way you think, McBride."

Over her shoulder, he watches the soldier turn the corner and breathes.

xxxxx

Back in Dublin a few days later, Michael finishes typing and hits send, watching until the cursor turns from hourglass to arrow again, telling him the message is safely away. He stands, stretches. When he first joined the CIA, he had been surprised at how much writing is involved in the spy business. Washington wants a report on everything – not just the intelligence, but how it was gathered. It makes sense – the more they know, the better they can find ways to corroborate and verify. And knowledge is useless unless it reaches the right eyes. He's only been working for the agency for a few years, but already he knows a few of his reports have slid across the desk in the Oval Office. It is a sobering thought, considering an audience like that for what he's just written.

He hangs his head and rotates his chin toward each shoulder in turn, working out the kinks in his neck muscles, then looks towards the ceiling for the counter stretch. Undercover operations are always tricky. Do too little, and you can't get close to the valuable sources. Do too much, and you risk losing the moral high ground. He isn't the first agent to participate in terrorist acts, although he had mitigated as best he could. Dan will be okay with that, he is sure.

Dan will be less comfortable with Michael's relationship with Fiona. He isn't the first agent to have sex with an asset, either, but the longer it goes on, the more the lines will become blurred, and the more dangerous it will become. If he is smart, he'll find a way to end it, but that, too, could cause problems. Jilted ex-girlfriends have a way of becoming vengeful, and Michael has a feeling Fiona's vengeance would be terrible indeed.

He tries not to think about Samantha. He won't tell her anything, of course, and she knows enough not to ask. His life is a series of watertight compartments – unsinkable, until someone tears a jagged hole along the side.

He sighs and walks around the desk to the small fridge in the corner of the office. He pulls out a yogurt and rummages in the drawer by the sink for a spoon. He leans against the counter to eat it. He's had enough sitting for a while. The copy shop in the front is quiet tonight. A feed from the security camera shows one young man with long hair and skinny jeans using the self-serve copier. Bill, the local agent who pulled clerk duty, sits by the till, reading a magazine. The date stamp on the bottom of the screen clicks over as the clock hits midnight and Michael looks at the numbers for a while before it sinks in: it was his Mom's birthday yesterday. Still is, in Miami. He calculates – they'll just be sitting down to dinner, if they're home.

Madeline will probably be starting in on how he didn't call. How he never calls. It's her birthday, she just wants to hear from her son. Nate is probably there. And his father.

_Shit._

He drops the empty yogurt container in the garbage and puts the spoon in the sink.

He waits for the kid in the front to leave, then dials, waits while the switchboard patches him through from the secure line in Washington. Maybe she won't answer and he can leave a message.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Ma. Happy birthday."

"Michael? Michael is that you? Frank, Nate, it's Michael!"

He holds the phone away from his ear. In his mind, he can see her gesturing toward his brother with her cigarette, Nate rolling his eyes, their father glowering into his beer as he turns up the volume on the game.

"Michael, how are you? _Where_ are you? Are you coming home?"

"I'm fine, Ma. You know I can't tell you that. No. I'm working."

"Michael, it's been years since I've seen you. Why don't you come home?"

"I'm_ working_, Ma," he repeats.

"You could get a job here, Michael. I could really use you. Your father could use you -"

He cuts her off. "I know, Ma. We've talked about this. I just can't, right now."

"Nate's here," she says, in a way that emphasizes he's not, yet again. "Do you want to speak to your brother?"

"Nah, that's okay. I have to go. I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday."

"That's it? So soon? But you haven't told me anything, Michael. How are you doing, are you sleeping okay? Are you eating enough?"

This was a mistake. It's always a mistake. He leans toward the phone on the desk. The receiver is still against his ear, but it's that much closer to the cradle. "I'm fine." He picks up a piece of paper on the desk and crinkles it in his hand, close to the mouthpiece. "Listen, Ma, I'm losing the connection. Did you get the money I sent?"

"Yes, thank you!" she's shouting. "But Michael, I might need to see a specialist, I don't think the medicine's working."

His eyes rise to the ceiling. "Yeah, okay. I'll send more next month." He crinkles some more. "I gotta go, Ma. We'll talk soon, okay?"

"Okay. It was nice of you to call. I –"

He hangs up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He wakes to the sun shining on his face, and for a moment, he could be in Miami again. Then Fi slips into bed beside him and holds out a cup of milky tea.

He blinks and sits up, pulling the duvet around his waist as he leans against the headboard.

Outside, some local boys have noisily occupied the street, turning it into an impromptu football pitch. Their shouts echo off the graffiti-covered brick walls of the row houses.

Michael reaches for the tea and takes a sip. He's almost starting to like it. "Ta," he thanks her with a light kiss.

It's been two months. Two months of the wild rollercoaster that is life with Fiona Glenanne. He's amazed that he's made it this far. She's incautious, volatile, and probably certifiably insane. He has no doubt, none, that she will happily put a bullet in his head if she ever finds out who he really is.

The sex, like her work, is explosive. She likes to keep him off-balance, literally and figuratively. She regularly jumps him the moment they get back from a job, she's so turned on.

She, too, was hit as a child, but seldom, and it was different for her. Her da really did love her. Michael can see it in the way she looks when she talks about him, in the jokes she and her brothers share about their father. The threats of a good hiding were probably the only way the man could control a brood of children like they must have been. One thing, though: it taught her young that violence, or the threat of violence, was an acceptable way to solve problems, or to get someone to do what you wanted.

That was something they have in common, and it has come in handy more than once. But it means she is not an easy asset to control.

"You had a good sleep," she comments, her head turned towards him on the pillow.

The bell on the church at the end of the street starts to chime and he cranes to see the clock. "Jesus, Fi – what time is it?"

"It's gone 10:00. Why?" she snuggles against his arm, but he pulls away.

"I've got to go," he says, pulling on his pants and following the trail of clothing across the floor to find his shirt and socks. "I was supposed to be someplace half an hour ago."

Fiona makes a face. "What can be that important, Michael?"

"I'm meeting someone about a job."

"What job?"

"Something with cars. I don't know. It wasn't too clear."

She rolls back onto her side and sips her tea. "Fine. I'll just stay here and keep the bed warm."

He leans in and kisses her, his eyes opening wide when she traps his lower lip between her teeth. "I'll be back as soon as I can," he says around her tongue.

She pouts and lets him go. "Just be back in time for tonight. We've got a job to do. Sean's got wind of some infiltrators."

"Infiltrators?" He asks causally, putting on his coat.

"Yeah. The heat's on with the peace talks starting up again, and the place is crawling with spooks. Sean's found out about a list. I'll fill you in later."

xxxxx

Michael staggers and bumps against the wall of a man guarding the hallway beside the bar of the pub. His pint sloshes, splashing the man's chest with Guinness.

"Oh, man. I am soooo sorry about that." He starts to brush off the man's sweater with the ineffectual pats of a sloppy drunk. Looking past the glare directed at him by the owner of the sweater, he sees Fiona move in. He rests his hand on the man's chest, feeling the fabric.

"Hey, this is nice! Really nice. Do you – " he runs his fingers across the cables, blinks slowly, and takes another run at the sentence he's trying to form. "Do you know where I could get one of these? For my mom? She had to back out of the trip at the last minute, and I'd," he pauses for a small burp, "I'd really like to bring her something from Ireland. You know, as a souvenir."

Fi raises her fist and nods, letting him know she's lifted the key to the office.

Michael winces as the bouncer's hand closes over his arm. That's gonna leave a bruise.

"No. Now be off with you." The bouncer pushes Michael's arm away, propelling him several paces across the pub floor. The other patrons part to make space for him without looking up. None of them want to get involved in this.

"Oh. Okay, then." Michael staggers again and holds up his almost-empty glass in one hand, and the other hand open-palmed in a gesture of submission. "I guess I'll try the, whaddisit, the high street. Thanks, though."

He drains the glass and stumbles to the bar, raising his hand for another as the bouncer glares at him.

Fifteen minutes later he's ejected into the alley. Fiona steps out from the shadows with a laugh.

"Did you get the disk?" he asks, straightening up and smoothing his hair down.

She nods, tapping a hand against the bag on her hip. ""All the spooks the Brits have working here and in Belfast. We'll get it to Sean in the morning." Then she looks at him, thoughtful.

"I didn't know you could do an American accent."

He grins and says in his best John Wayne drawl, "Well, now, lil' lady, I reckon I watch a lot of movies. Was it okay?"

She sniffs. "Needs work, but it did the trick."

xxxxx

Michael waits a few minutes after Fi's breathing settles down to make sure she's really asleep. He slips out of bed and pads across the hardwood on bare feet to the hook by the door where her bag hangs. Quietly, he retrieves the floppy disk and moves to the desk. He's already turned off the speakers, so the only sound the laptop makes as it boots up is a soft whir.

He inserts the disk and checks the date, changing the computer's clock to match before he opens the file and scrolls through the list. It's not long, only six names. Six poor bastards whose cover is about to be blown. Michael McBride is number four. A few keystrokes, and the list is one man shorter. He alters significant details on the other names, making them more difficult to find. He closes the file and re-sets the clock.

As he pads quietly back to hook by the door, he doesn't see Fiona watching him through her eyelashes.

xxxxx

"I don't like it, Westen." Dan's voice is weary, and Michael can tell he's almost worn him down.

"Listen, Dan, it's not perfect, but it's important. They're looking for a source for RPGs. It's a chance to expand our reach. We didn't know about the German connection. If I go –"

Dan cuts him off. "If you go, it's a hell of a lot of paperwork. Why not let the Berlin office handle it? Or better yet, our friends at BfV? If we play nice, I'm sure they'll share."

Even though he knows his handler can't see him, Michael leans forward on his seat. "Dan, you know that's not the right play. If we involve someone new at this stage, the IRA is going to smell a rat."

For a moment, all he can hear is breathing. Then there's the sound of a can of Sprite popping open, and Michael leans back, confident that he's won the argument.

"Okay. Fine. I'll set you up."

"You won't regret it, Sir."

"Sir my ass. Just get it done, Westen. I want this wrapped up."

xxxxx

Michael inches back a little further in the doorway, his back against the painted concrete to get his head out of the rain. Out of the bathtub into the swimming pool. Berlin is having a rainy week, and mist coming off the canal at the end of the street makes it wetter than Dublin.

The incessant damp is seeping into his bones, causing an ache in the leg he'd broken when he was six. He read somewhere that anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked about what she looked for as the first sign of civilization, and she'd replied a healed femur, because someone with a broken femur relies on other people to help them. If someone has been protected, fed, cared for while the injury heals, that says something about a society. He wonders what she would think it said about civilization, all the ways a leg bone could get broken: a car accident, an angry father, an enemy with a length of metal pipe, waiting for you in a doorway. He checks again to make sure Fiona is in position.

One thought leads to another and he starts reviewing karate bunkai, all the practical applications of the routines he worked so hard to learn. From the outside, they could be nothing more than strange and beautiful dances: a waving hand here, a turn there. But underneath, the movements are deadly earnest, a way of conveying information about how to fight. One small set of raised hand gestures contains ten different ways to break someone's wrist, overpower an opponent long enough to escape or strike a fatal blow. He runs through them in his head, making use of the stretch of boredom to refresh the skills that might keep him alive when the action finally comes.

The com in his ear crackles to life with Fiona's voice, bringing him back to the task at hand.

"There he is. I'll go in first. Only come in if I give you the signal."

"Roger that," he replies, before he remembers that she can't hear him. They didn't want to take the risk of an earpiece, fearing it might be too visible.

This is the part he hates. Waiting on the outside while his partner takes a risk. Especially, he has to admit, when that partner is Fiona.

They had argued about it earlier, in the hotel as they packed for the mission. He'd told he wasn't happy with her going in alone.

"Well, I'm not happy about bringing someone new along to meet with a supplier," she'd sniffed. "It's not exactly good for business."

"I wish you would get out of this business." The words slipped out and he'd stopped, cursing himself for a rookie mistake. That was not something Michael McBride would say. But then, it hadn't been McBride who'd stayed awake on the plane, Fi's drowsy head tucked against his shoulder, wondering how the hell he would keep her safe when he eventually brought her whole world crashing down.

She looked at him, her hand on her hip. "You don't like what I do."

"No, Fi, I don't. These are dangerous people."

"I'm pretty dangerous myself, you know," she retorted, stuffing a clip of ammunition into her bag with more force than necessary.

"Believe me, I do."

She turned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've seen what you're capable of, Fi."

"Oh, so you think I'm as bad as them, is that it? You're not exactly squeaky clean yourself, Michael."

"No, Fi, I meant –" It seemed like every conversation they'd had lately had slipped away from him, veering off into misunderstanding. Dan had been right. Sleeping with an asset made things too complicated. If she was angry that he was trying to control her, it was his own damn fault. He lowered his voice. "I just don't want you to get hurt, that's all."

"This is what I do, Michael. Help me or get the hell out of my way, but I've got a dealer to meet." She picked up the bag from the bed and swung it over her shoulder, stepping around him to the door.

Now she's stepping through another door, and he has to wait outside, keeping watch. It doesn't take long for things to go wrong. Fi gives him the lay of the land through the com.

"I thought we agreed to come alone, Matthias. So who are these two gentlemen?"

"Don't worry about them. They are like shadows."

"Aren't shadows usually cast by light? And less well armed?"

Michael slips across the street and down the side of the building to a window at the back, far from the streetlight. Why is it that when they're face to face, they can't communicate, but as soon as they're on a job they understand each other perfectly?

"Okay. So are we going to do this or what? Where are the RPGs? All I see is an empty van."

Michael hauls himself up on a garbage bin and hooks his fingers onto a window ledge. He can just reach it. Fortunately, the warehouse is brick, giving his soft sneakers purchase and he climbs up until he can see inside. She's standing across the room from him, facing the contact, and there are two heads in watch caps below the window. He can see the tips of the rifles they are carrying, both pointed at Fi. A Mercedes panel van is to the right, near a rolling door at the back of the building.

"I do not have them with me. I thought it would be wise to meet before I show you my merchandise."

"Never kiss on the first date, huh? Well, that wasn't what we agreed. Call me when you want to get serious." She starts to walk towards the door she had used to enter the room, when Matthias called out to her.

"Not so fast, Miss Glenanne."

She stops and turns impatiently. Michael silently wills her to keep her cool.

"If you would kindly step into the van, I will take you to the weapons."

She shrugs and starts toward the van. _Dammit, Fi_, Michael hisses under his breath.

Matthias motions to one of his men, who steps forward with a hand-held scanner. "If you will excuse me, I need to check that you are not being tracked."

She shrugs again, holding out her arms and tapping her foot. Another of the men goes through her bag, removing a sawed-off shotgun. Matthias raises his eyebrows. Fiona simply stares at him. Michael holds his breath, hoping they won't find the mic for the com, which is hidden in her hair clip. Fortunately, the goon limits himself to checking her ears. Finally, he is satisfied, and as she gets in the van, Michael lowers himself back to the garbage bin and hops of, running lightly to the car. He's got to follow her.

The driver of the van is good, but Michael is better. After 45 minutes of doubling back and strange turns, the van pulls into an alley behind another warehouse. A garage door opens and the van disappears inside. Michael drives past and parks around the corner before making his way back down the alley as quickly as possible while hugging the wall for cover. Before he is halfway there, his com crackles with shouting in German, and he abandons the cover as he starts to sprint. He's almost at the door when an explosion rips it off its track, the force blowing him back against the wall of the building opposite.

He screams her name as debris rains down on him.

xxxxx

He wakes up in the back of a cab, a hand applying pressure to a cloth on his bicep. His gaze follows the arm to the face of Fiona, staring down at him. Her forehead is knitted with concern, but relaxes as his eyes gain focus.

"Fi?"

"Finally. I thought you were never going to wake up." Her tone is sarcastic, belying the worry he'd seen in her face.

"What happened?" He tries to sit up and groans as the movement causes a searing pain to shoot up his arm.

"I'll explain later. We're almost at the hotel."

He lets his head fall back onto the seat and rolls his face towards her. "I thought… Jesus, Fi. I thought you were dead."

"You really don't have much faith in me, do you, Michael?"

He ignores the pain to reach across the back seat and pull her to him. "I am never so happy as when you prove me wrong."

Her reply is lost as his mouth covers hers.

xxxxx

"What the hell happened, Westen?" Dan is not happy. Michael winces and holds the phone away from his ear.

"It turned out that Glenanne's contact had some enemies in the Berlin underground. They used the meet as a chance to take him out. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, that's just fucking great, Westen. And the money?"

Michael drops his chin and frowns. "Gone, Sir."

"Why is it you only call me 'sir' when my ass is on the line?"

Michael decides it would be prudent to stay silent. There is a sigh on the other end of the line.

"Whatever, okay. I'll figure it out at this end. What about the Libyan thing? That better not be a fuck up too, or so help me –"

"It should be happening soon. The situation in Germany was a setback, and it's made Donovan nervous, but losing a supplier has made him more likely to contact the Libyans. I expect some movement in the next week or so." He's pacing back and forth in the office as he speaks.

"Are you sure your asset is reliable?"

He stands still. "She saved my life, Dan."

"Just make sure it isn't your dick doing the thinking."


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thanks again for the reviews, especially re. the tradecraft. All the information on that has come from books or other media. I find spies and secret identities fascinating. _

**Chapter 4**

Michael watches Sam's fingers leave trails in the moisture on the almost full pint of Guinness in front of him. He can tell it is killing Sam to nurse the beer, but he appreciates the effort.

"Look, Mike, this is a good opportunity. These guys have been causing problems for long enough."

Michael takes a sip of his own beer. "I know, Sam."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I don't want to put Fiona in a meeting with the Libyans."

"Fiona? Aw, Mike. Are you getting soft?" Sam leans in and whispers, "I hate to break it to you, brother, but she's IRA. She can handle herself."

Michael silences him with a look. "It's not her I'm worried about. She's a loose cannon. I'd rather keep her for intelligence, not operations."

"Mikey, you haven't told her who she's working for, have you?"

Michael looks uncomfortable. "Not yet. It's delicate."

Sam snorts. "It's always delicate." He takes another swallow of beer. "Still, I can see why you might want to stretch this one out."

Michael goes still. "What are you saying, Sam?" There's a threat in his voice, but Sam always enjoys pushing him.

"Ahhh, man, Mikey. You aren't -? You are, aren't you? Jesus. Unbelievable. You and the ladies." He shakes his head and raises his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"Sam, I need to find out who is really funding them. That's only going to work if they're out of money. Which means-" Michael holds out his hand to Sam.

"—which means they'll need to pay more than they expect." He snaps his fingers. "Like if something happens to the merchandise." Sam fills in the rest of the plan.

Michael nods. "Think you can set something up?"

"Yeah, I guess." Sam shrugs. "Oh, I almost forgot. I got you a new com. You said you had troubles with the last one. This puppy should stay in place a little better." He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box that he slides across the table. Michael removes the earpiece and fits it into place before giving the thumbs up.

Sam raises his glass hopefully. "So, are we done here? You know, you'd think this warm beer thing they've got going over here would be terrible, but it's actually not bad."

Michael smiles and stands up. "Yeah, Sam. We're done."

He makes his way out of the pub, turns the corner, and runs straight into Fiona, just as he's removing the earpiece.

"Michael? What are you doing here?"

He flashes her a welcoming smile as his mind races. He'd thought this pub would be far enough out of the neighbourhood that he wouldn't be recognized, but he'd never expected her to turn up.

"Fi! I was just stopping for a pint on my way home."

She's looking at his ear. "Michael, what is that?" Her hand is up before he can stop her.

"Oh, now, Fi, luv –" he reaches for it, but it's too late. The com unit is in her hand.

"Michael?"

There's a moment that seems suspended in time as she looks from the com to him, and he looks back at her. Then things move fast.

She throws a punch and he catches it, twisting her arm behind her back, moving her into the shadows away from the streetlight and against the wall. "No, no, no," he says, close to her ear, as his other hand clamps over her mouth. "Fi, listen to me." He can feel her jaw working behind his fingers as she tries to bite him. "I'm going to let go, but I need you to listen to me. Okay?"

She nods. He's not sure it's a good idea, but he needs her to trust him. He turns her around to face him and carefully raises his hand off her mouth.

"Who are you?" she asks.

He's surprised at how much it hurts to see the confusion and pain in her eyes. But he's learned to not give up on a cover too easily. He's not sure he's ready to make the change from covert op to recruiting her, yet. He remembers what they told him at the Farm about the four most common motivations for people to become assets: Money, Ideology, Compromise or Ego– or a combination. He knows she joined for revenge after the death of her sister, but he hasn't figured out a good angle to get her out, yet. She is extremely loyal to her friends and family, and won't leave unless he can convince her it won't betray her sister's memory. He has to move carefully, and he has to have the upper hand.

Which he definitely doesn't, at the moment.

"Fi, luv, whatever can you mean? I'm Michael McBride."

"Why do you have a com unit? Who were you going to listen to?"

He knows that sometimes, to get people to believe you, it's best to admit to a lie. "Fi, I wasn't completely honest with you just now. I didn't just stop for a pint. I was meeting a man who could get me this."

She turns away and he grabs her shoulders, moving so his face is still in front of hers. "I thought we could get a bug on one of the Libyans, see what they're up to."

Her forehead wrinkles. "The Libyans? Why?"

"I don't trust the buggers. I don't want Ian getting in too deep with them until we really know them."

"But it's too late – the deal is set for tomorrow night." She's looking at him, hard. "Besides, we've been dealing with the Libyans for eons."

"I know that. But it was over with them eons ago, too. I'm not comfortable with this new group," he explained quickly. "If I can get this on them, we can listen in after they leave us, find out who they are when they're at home, like."

She snorts. "Who they are when they're at home? Michael, they're _Libyans_. They're scum when they're at home."

He doesn't disagree. "Dangerous scum. We'd do well to know what they're up to."

She narrows her eyes, not convinced. "Well, where's the rest of it?"

He forces himself not to swallow. "The rest of it?"

"Don't you need a bug? This is just the earpiece."

"Of course, of course. But the man, he didn't have it quite ready. I'm to pick it up tomorrow."

His hold on her relaxes and she grabs his hand, bending and twisting the wrist and he gasps in pain at the same moment he feels her gun against his stomach.

"Okay, ow."

"Now, McBride, if that is your name, you had better not be lying to me."

"Fi! Jesus. What are you thinking?" He can't show fear. "If the Libyans are up to something, it's to our advantage to know about it."

She looks into his eyes and he can see the wheels turning.

"Do you love me, Michael?"

Being a spy is 90 per cent lying to other people, and 10 per cent lying to yourself. Or it might be the other way around. Some days it's hard to keep track.

"How could I not?"

She's kissing him and he doesn't even have to wonder what's real and what's pretend for this part. Except for one thing.

"Fi. Fiona," he mumbles.

"Yes, Michael?"

"Could you let go of my wrist, now?"

xxxxx

Fiona slams her favourite Walther PPK onto the counter, and Michael flinches. Fortunately, the safety is on. "What the feck was that?"

"We had no choice, Fiona."

The op has gone badly. Or well, depending on whether you're Fiona or Michael. They'd paid for the weapons and had been loading them into their truck when an annoying American tourist had bumbled onto the scene. Fi had wanted to shoot him, but Michael convinced her to run. By the time they went back to collect the merchandise, it was gone. Fi thought the Libyans had come back for it, but Sam had arranged for it to be picked up by a team from MI-5.

"Those damn Libyans. We didn't even get the bug on them, Michael." She's livid. "I bet the whole thing was a set-up."

"Could have been."

"And now I'm out twenty thousand _American_ dollars."

"Fiona, calm down. We can get more money."

She shakes her head. "There's no way. Ian can't put that kind of cash together easily. And I don't want to ask him, not after Germany."

"What about the Americans?"

"I don't know, Michael. Maybe..."

"Fiona, we could do it. We could approach them, maybe even connect them with the Libyans directly."

"It's possible, but something about this doesn't smell right."

"It will work. Trust me."

xxxxx

As predicted, Ian is livid that the deal fell through, but he's determined to throw a wrench into the peace process. He gives them other jobs to do, but Fiona is quiet for the next few days, reserved. Michael starts to worry that she doesn't trust him. She comes and goes without telling him where. He gets the feeling he's been sidelined, and it makes him nervous.

He's alone in his flat doing push-ups when the door opens and slams, and she stands in the entrance, shoulders heaving.

Michael leaps to his feet, grabbing a small towel from the back of a chair. "Fi, what is it?"

Her arm waves loosely in a hopeless gesture, and he notices that she's still clutching a balaclava. _Shit._ Something went down and she didn't tell him about it. He can hear the thudding of his pulse in his ears.

"They… they didn't… they were supposed to call in the threat." Her voice breaks and as the tears start flowing he's in front of her, folding her into his chest, breathing the smell of grease and gunpowder on her hair.

"Fi. Fiona."

She looks at him, her eyes full of anguish. "There were _children_, Michael."

He freezes. "Did they…?" He can't say it. There's a knot of worry in his throat that won't let the words out.

Fiona shakes her head. "I don't think so, no. Sean shouted. They got out in time." In an instant, her tone changes to anger and she breaks out of his embrace.

"That bastard Ian. He was supposed to call it in. I'm sick of it, Michael."

He lets her rant. He's learned that sometimes, all she needs is his presence.

"Sick of it."

All of a sudden, she's crying again. "They didn't tell me. No one warned me the call hadn't gone through. What if -" she turns and presses her forehead against the glass of the window, staring blindly into the open space between the council flats.

He stands behind her, one hand wrapping around her shoulders, the other stroking her hair as he bends and rests his head against the top of hers. "I know."

"I can't kill children, Michael."

"Shhhh. I know, Fi."

"The British might be murdering bastards, but children shouldn't have to grow up wondering when the next mailbox is going to explode." She turns to him again, staring straight into his eyes. "I want it to stop, Michael."

"What are you saying?"

"I want to stop this whole mess. I want – I want the talks to go ahead."

"Fiona…"

"Michael, I think you can help me. Can you help me?"

He knows he should stick to his cover, that this might be some kind of test. But sometimes, the real test isn't the one you're expecting. Sometimes it's the one you're most afraid of. In moments like those, you have a choice between being a spy, and being a human being.

"I can help you," he says softly. The accent is gone. It's the first time he's used his real voice with her.

To his relief, she nods, as if she had known for a long time and was only waiting for him to tell her. "What is your real name? Or can't you tell me that? I suppose it doesn't matter."

"My name is Michael Westen. I am a spy."

xxxxx

"So what happens now, Michael?" Fiona's voice is strained as she uses a screwdriver to pry open the light cover on the car's open trunk. Without looking, she hands him the screwdriver to hold while she fishes out a bundle of wires attached to the tilt switch.

"We take apart a few more trunk lights and replenish our supply of motion detonators." Michael looks around the junkyard. "This should be more than enough to last us, unless you're planning something really huge that I don't know about."

Fiona glares at him as he hands her the wire cutters. "That's not what I mean."

Michael sighs and leans against the bumper. "You mean what happens now that I'm Michael Westen?"

She holds up a small, liquid-filled ampoule and tilts it until a floating ball of mercury touches the two wires at one end. In a car, opening the trunk makes the mercury complete the circuit and triggers a light. In a bomb, the same mechanism becomes a deadly counter-tampering device for anyone who tries to move it. Satisfied, she tucks the switch into her bag before squinting at him. The sun has made a welcome appearance and is shining behind his head, making it hard for her to see him clearly. "Yes."

"I don't know, Fi," he says softly. "My job, I –"

She cuts him off. "You're just going to leave, aren't you?"

"Not for a while." He gathers up the tools and they walk to the next car. He crowbars the trunk open. "The peace process may have a chance this time. They want me to stay until there's a ceasefire, to make sure the American supporters are either on board or shut down. After that," he shrugs. "Yeah. I'll probably go."

"And where does that leave me?"

"I'll make sure you have another handler," he says, handing her the screwdriver.

Too late, he realizes his tactical error.

"Another _handler_, Michael? Is that how you see yourself? As my _handler_?" She's so angry, she's practically spitting. Instinctively, he takes a step back.

"Of course not, Fi."

"What, then? How do you see me?" She's waving the screwdriver in a way that makes him nervous, and behind his back, he tightens his grip on the wire cutters.

"Fiona, you know my job makes it impossible –"

"Answer the question, Michael."

"You… are someone I care about a great deal."

She snorts. "That's very sweet." She turns away and attacks the light cover with more force than necessary. It shatters.

"Listen, Fi, what do you want from me? To say I'm sorry? I'm sorry, Fiona. I did what I had to do for the mission, but I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied to you. I didn't expect it to be real."

Her eyes search his. When she finally speaks, her voice is low. "This is real, then?"

"As real as it can be, for me."

"You said you loved me."

He grimaces slightly. "Well, actually, I _think_ I said, 'How can I not?' which, you know…" His voice trails off. She's not in the mood for joking.

"Why Michael?"

"I can't," he raises his hands in frustration. "Don't you see, Fiona? I can't be close to anyone. If I Iove someone, it puts both of us in danger. Sooner or later, my enemies will get to them and use them against me. I can't give anyone that kind of leverage against me, and I won't do that to anyone I care about."

"I can take care of myself."

"It's not just you I'm worried about. I have a lot of enemies, Fiona, and I make more every day."

"Isn't that the truth," she mutters, wrenching another switch out of its socket.


	5. Chapter 5

**_A/N:_**_ And… we're done. Thank you so much for all your comments. Concrit is always welcome, especially about characterization or canon. I worked pretty hard to keep this within the original (pre-S6) canon, although there were a few things I just couldn't fit in, so I would especially appreciate specifics on anything you think I've misunderstood or gotten plain wrong. Feel free to PM me if you're interested in discussing anything in more detail – it's always fun to mull things over with other fans. _

**Chapter 5**

Things get complicated after that. Her anger at him bubbles over at the least opportune times.

He hopes this isn't one of those times. It's a side job, one of those things that are supposed to be quick and easy. They almost never are. It's going sideways, and he hopes Fiona is still there to get his back.

The man levels his gun at Michael, and is surprised when he doesn't flinch.

"Put the gun down, O'Malley," Michael says slowly, in a tone one would use for an irritating child. "I don't have time to play games."

"Games, is it? You think this is a game?"

"I think you're not thinking this through. Shoot me now, and you won't get the money," he explains. "Let me do my job, and we'll both be rich."

What happens next happens very quickly. O'Malley raises the gun, and almost instantly, a hole appears in the window beside him and a matching one in his arm. Stunned, he looks at his arm, then at the window as he falls. But as he falls, his grip reflexively tightens on the gun and it goes off. Michael skids sideways and the bullet grazes his chest.

xxxxx

Michael leans his thighs against the bathroom sink and lifts the corner of his undershirt. The blood has soaked through the temporary dressing on his chest and he winces as he removes the tape. In the reflection of the mirror, he sees Fiona holding a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a fresh bandage.

"I thought you might need this." She squeezes into the tiny bathroom and he turns to her, resting against the counter while she dabs at the wound with a cotton ball of pain. "It's not as bad as I thought," she says. She puts on the new dressing and lets her hand trail across his chest. When it reaches his waistband, he circles her wrist with his thumb and index finger.

"Fi," he says. "Not now."

_He's eight years old and his mother is trying to explain the true nature of his father's affection for him. _

_"He does it because he loves you, Michael. One day you'll thank him."_

_The ever-present cigarette bounces in the corner of her mouth as she speaks, her hands occupied daubing hydrogen peroxide onto his face. He winces and fresh tears appear._

_"Oh, now, it's not that bad." Madeline presses the butterfly bandage into place and sits back to admire her handiwork. "There. I don't think you'll even need stitches after all."_

_She hugs him and takes the cigarette out of her mouth long enough to kiss his head. "He just wants you to learn to listen, Michael." Her voice cracks. "You've got to learn."_

He does learn, although he has never once been grateful for the way the lessons were imparted.

He learns the importance of a good cover story, and the harm that a bad one can do.

He learns that using force to get people to do what you want only makes them hate you more.

He learns that some people are so addicted to violence there is no reaching them, no matter how hard you try.

Later, after he becomes a spy, some of those lessons save his life. Unlike some of his colleagues, he is always reluctant to solve a problem with violence, believing that while the pen may or may not be mightier than the sword, the judicious use of duct tape can outperform an AK-47 in a surprising number of situations. One of the greatest pleasures of his work is the opportunity to prove that how you use your brain is more important than how you use your fists. Although he is pretty good with his fists, too, when he has to be. And he is pretty good at knowing when he has to be. That helps him to sleep at night.

Most of all, he learns that violence has nothing, _nothing _to do with love.

Which makes his relationship with Fiona somewhat complicated.

She moves her hand back up to his chest, pulling his hand with it.

"Come on, Michael, let me kiss it better," the last words muffled as she presses her lips into the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder. She's learned the places that please him.

"Fiona-"

"What?" she mumbles, her mouth moving slowly along his collarbone. "You're not still mad at me, are you?"

"Fiona."

Something in his voice makes her pull back and turn her eyes to his. "You are. You're still mad at me."

"I. Got. Shot."

She shrugs. "It's barely a scratch."

"That's not the point."

"Then what?"

"The point is, you were supposed to wait. We agreed that I would talk him down."

Her hand is creeping down again while her lips brush the centre of his chest. "It's true, you can be very persuasive. But he was raising his gun."

"I was talking him down."

She pulls her hand away from his and straightens abruptly in a gesture of frustration. "Fine. Okay, I came in too soon. It was a split-second decision, Michael. I thought he was going to shoot you."

He raises his eyebrows, points at the bandage below his ribs.

"There, see, I was right. He did shoot you."

"Only after you turned it into a gun fight!"

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What? What am I forgetting, Fiona?"

"He missed you because I shot him first. You should be thanking me, not shouting at me." She turns her head away, shuffles her feet, and adds, her voice barely a whisper, "I thought – I thought he was going to kill you, Michael."

He touches her face, and she leans her head into his hand. His thumb leaves a smudge of dampness along her cheekbone.

"Fi. Fiona. Hey. It's alright. I'm here." He stands, folds her into his arms, presses his mouth into the hair on top of her head. "Thank you."

xxxxx

"Tomorrow, Mikey?" Sam asks. "Are you sure?" he sets down his pint and bends forward slightly in the small booth of the pub.

Michael nods. "As sure as I can be. Donovan is being pretty cagey, even with Fi. But I think this will be our best opportunity to get the information on the American connection, and I'm gonna need tactical support."

He reaches for a cardboard coaster on the table and flips it over, sketching a crude map as he talks. "Ian wants to meet here. There's an alley beside the smoke shop across the street, and the alley between the warehouse and the row houses is pretty open. Fiona and I will be tasked with security. We'll set up here. That leaves the building on this corner. If you set up your com station on the top, you should be in range to catch the transmission, and have a pretty good view with a rifle in case things go south."

Sam peers at the map. "And you'll place the transmitter in the laptop to capture the keystrokes?"

Michael nods again. "They'll be using Fi's laptop because I just gave her an upgrade for her birthday."

"And here I thought you weren't romantic."

Michael silences him with a look. "I gave her a bracelet and took her to dinner, too, Sam."

"Well, alright then." Catching another look, Sam stops talking and takes a sip of his beer.

xxxxx

There's a half-jog in Michael's step as he climbs the stairs to her flat. He's carrying a grocery bag. It's a celebration, of sorts. The op is coming to a head tonight. He knows not to count his chickens, but he feels good – the op is well planned, everything should go smoothly. The one catch is that if it does, he'll probably be shipped out for someplace else pretty soon. Maybe back to Russia. Which would mean Samantha, and a conversation he dreads.

He's got Van Morrison on the stereo and dinner already well under way when Fiona gets home.

"Oh my God, Michael, that smells divine." She wraps her arms around him and tries to peer over his shoulder at the stove. "What is it?"

He gives her a quick kiss. "Tuna and tahini. But it's the caramelized onions you smell."

Taking the pan of onions off the burner, he arranges them carefully over a mound of tuna already on the serving platter. "Hand me those pine nuts, will you?"

She does, and gets out glasses to pour the wine that's sitting open on the counter while he tosses the pine nuts in the pan.

"Okay, ready. Let's eat." He adds the roasted pine nuts to the platter and carries it to the table.

She savours the first bite with her eyes closed and he watches her, enjoying seeing her taking so much pleasure from something he's created. When she opens her eyes, they're bright. "Where did you learn to make this?"

He swallows a mouthful of wine before answering. "Middle east. Here and there. You know. Do you like it?"

"I love it. Did your mother teach you how to cook?"

"_My_ mother?" His laugh has a note of bitterness. "No. My mother is a terrible cook. It drives my father crazy." He pushes a morsel of tuna around his plate with his fork, deciding how much to tell her. "I took over pretty early on. I guess I've always been better at following a recipe than orders."

"Well, that's a skill that comes in handy. Stick with me, and I'll teach you all sorts of useful recipes."

The corner of his mouth tilts up. "You already have. Yours usually burn, though."

She shrugs. "True."

He puts down his fork, takes a breath. "Fi, can I ask you something?"

"Of course." She sits back and swirls the wine in her glass.

"Why did you decide you could trust me, when you decided you wanted out? You obviously knew I wasn't who I said I was."

She nods, smiles slightly. "I did. There were too many things that didn't add up. You were good, but ops kept going wrong. I figured you were some kind of spook the night you altered the list of names. I thought MI-5, but I needed more information. I wasn't sure until after Berlin."

"I was sure you would kill me if you ever found out."

She stares at him, coolly. "Don't think I didn't consider it. There was a block of Semtex under your car for weeks."

"So why didn't you?" he asks quietly.

She sets her glass back on the table. "I was tired of being told what to do by people who had forgotten what we were fighting for. "

He waits.

She swallows, and her voice is thick when she speaks. "The lies hurt me, Michael. Don't think that they didn't. But what really mattered between us, that wasn't a lie. There were times, when I knew –" She reaches across the table for his hand. "You may have faked your name, Michael, but you couldn't fake who you were."

"Fi, when this is over –"

"When this is over, we'll have kept the Libyans from establishing a new footing here, and the ex-pats from financing more destruction. It may not last forever, but it will be long enough that it will give the peace process a chance to really take hold. We've done something good here, Michael."

xxxxx

She tastes like garlic and wine and optimism, and his body thrums with pre-op nerves. Far from relieving the tension, their lovemaking heightens and channels it, honing it to a fine edge. They are a team, perfectly synchronized, ready for the fight. It's hard, and fast, and wild, and when it's over, he feels like he could take on the world.

xxxxx

He stands and starts getting dressed, retrieving clothing from a trail left in their wake. Fiona stretches lazily. "Is it time already?"

"Not yet. I left my vest at my place." He bends over and kisses her on the forehead.

"I'll see you at 11:00."

"Don't be late!" she calls as the door closes behind him.

His thoughts are still with her as he steps out into the dark street, and he's startled by the sound of footsteps approaching rapidly from behind. He barely has time to form a fist before a hand grips his shoulder.

"Mike, thank God. I was trying to figure out how to get you out of there."

Michael relaxes at the sound of Sam's voice, but only for a moment. The worry ratchets up again when he realizes that if Sam is here, something is wrong.

"What are you doing here, Sam?" he asks as the hand on his shoulder propels him towards a car at the curb.

"No time to explain. Get in." Sam opens the passenger door and runs around to the driver's side.

"What's this about?" Michael grasps the dashboard as they take a sharp corner.

Sam keeps his eyes on the road. "I'm here for your exfil, Mike."

Michael is confused. "My exfil? But the operation is tonight. I can't leave now."

Sam glances at him. "You've got to, brother. The office picked up some chatter on the Americans. Turns out the guys are from Miami. You've been made. I've got to get you out of here before this thing goes down."

"Dammit!" He slams the dashboard with his open palm.

"Yeah." They pull up in front of Michael's flat. "We need to do a scrub of your place, but let's make it quick, alright? The Brits are letting you hitch a ride on one of their helicopters, but they leave in an hour."

Michael pulls a small duffle from under the bed and packs with the speed of practice, while Sam opens the floorboards and retrieves documents and a laptop. "Ready?"

"Almost." Michael opens the drawer on his nightstand and pulls out an envelope of photos. He checks to make sure the negatives are still in their slot and places it in his bag. "Ready."

Sam checks the street before they run back to the car.

They make it to the helipad with time to spare. Michael turns in his seat. "Sam, I need to ask you a favour."

"What is it, brother?" Sam asks, and then he rolls his head. "Aw, man. It's Fiona, isn't it?"

"If they find out she knew about me, they'll kill her." His voice is urgent.

"Dammit, Mikey." They can hear the chop of the helicopter approaching.

"Please, Sam. I didn't even have time to say goodbye."

"Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do. But you owe me, big time."

Michael smiles. "I know I do. Thanks, Sam."

He grabs his bag and runs at a crouch to the waiting helicopter.

xxxxx

Fiona waits as long as she can before meeting Ian.

"Where's McBride?"

"I don't know. He'll be here."

"We can't wait. You'll have to come in with me."

She nods and takes one last look over her shoulder, but there is no sign of Michael.

The American is waiting for them, and he looks angry.

From the rooftop across the street, Sam watches the scene through the scope of his sniper rifle. They haven't unpacked Fi's laptop yet, so he can't hear. Sure enough, it looks like the American is telling Donovan about McBride. Donovan turns his gun on Fiona and yells. Even without ears, Sam knows this isn't good. Fiona's hands go up and she's shaking her head, stepping back. Shit.

Donovan yells some more, and Fiona kneels with her back to him. He's taking aim when he buckles backward suddenly, a bullet through his forehead. On the rooftop, Sam reloads, turns to the American, who's running. Before he can shoot, the man is down. Sam looks, and sees Fiona standing, gun out. She turns to scan the rooftop and Sam ducks. She'll never know exactly what just happened.

xxxxx

The domes of St. Petersburg gleam in the late summer evening sun. Michael tips the cab driver and gets out to walk the last few blocks. He hoists his bag to his shoulder. It feels heavier than when he left, even though he's left so much behind. Each foot on the stairs is solid with weariness, and he rests his forehead on the door for a moment before he slips the key in the lock.

The apartment is empty. It's like stepping down the last step that isn't there. He knows what he has to do and he would rather get it over with. He walks to the bedroom, dark with curtains drawn against the south sun. The scent of Samantha's perfume tells him she's still living here.

He walks through the apartment to the bedroom and lowers his bag onto the bed. There's a suit he wants to get, a couple of photographs. Her clothes are hanging neatly in the closet and he lets the silky fabric of a dress run slowly through his fingers. It's the one she wore that evening.

Jesus.

What had he been thinking? His life doesn't allow for this. He sheds lives the way other men shed clothes, and he's leaving behind a series of crumpled messes. It wouldn't be fair to Samantha to marry her, even if it weren't for Fiona.

But there is Fiona, and there isn't.

He'll most likely never see her again. That's done, now, and he knows enough to move on, but he also knows that he will carry her with him. The fact that it is useless to be angry at circumstances doesn't take the taste of bile from his mouth.

He tells himself it could never have worked, anyway. Spies don't get involved with terrorists, even if she wasn't as bad as she looked on paper. He will keep telling himself that.

Samantha's heels click on the linoleum in the hallway and the deadbolt slides back. Michael takes a breath and steps into the living room to say goodbye.


End file.
